


I Got You

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Doctor Who RPF
Genre: Colepaldi, Drabble, Fluff, Gen, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7441810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jenna knew she'd been working too hard, but she was determined to push on and not let it get to her, sure she could get past the problem if only she persevered and fought through her tiredness. </p><p>Stubborn to the last, it's not until she's at an event that everything gets too much and her exhaustion catches up with her... but luckily for her, she has a good friend at her side when it does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Got You

**Author's Note:**

> At the time this was written, it was prior to Jenna going away to Florence, and myself and a few friends had noted that she must be genuinely knackered what with conventions and public appearances and such! So this came about as a "well, if she doesn't take a break..." 
> 
> The title is from "I Got You," by Leona Lewis. Look up the lyrics, they're adorable and hella relevant for Peter & Jenna in this fic.

Truth be told, Jenna told herself bitterly, the whole incident was really her own fault. No matter how much her assistant apologised for not picking up on her exhaustion, no matter how often her manager told her she was sorry for overworking her, she refused to blame anyone other than herself for her current predicament. She'd said ‘yes’ far too easily and far too often, and now she'd found herself... well, stuck at home indefinitely, with nothing much to do other than watch Netflix and eat junk food, isolated from her friends, her work, and her family. She scowled in the general direction of the ceiling, cursing her own stupidity and her refusal to listen to what her body had been telling her. If only she hadn’t been so relentlessly stubborn in her insistence that she was OK, perhaps she could have avoided her self-inflicted house arrest. 

 _Of course I can do this,_ she'd told herself stubbornly for the past few weeks, striving to work through the exhaustion of filming and flights, public appearances and conventions. _I_ need _to do this, it's part of my job: look pretty, answer questions, promote the show, talk about doing what I love. Meet fans, take selfies, sign a few autographs. I can do that. It's not too taxing. It’s basically a holiday, but I get paid._

She sighed in frustration, running her hands through her hair. She knew she'd taken on too much, but she'd been determined to soldier through her fatigue, determined not to let down those who'd travelled for hours and paid hundreds of dollars to meet her. That wasn’t something she was willing to do to fans of the show, and thus she’d gritted her teeth and kept quiet, persevering through the jetlag as best as she was able to, thanking god each night for the welcome relief of a comfortable bed and a few stolen hours of sleep.

As for the awards and the press appearances, they'd more or less been social events, she'd lied to herself optimistically. Admittedly, social events that took a team of eight people four hours to prepare her for; social events that consisted of her wearing pieces by designers she adored and then trying to ignore savage Daily Mail headlines complaining about the perceived lack of her cleavage on display; but social events nonetheless, all socialising and networking and spending time with old friends. It was exhausting and often thankless, of course, but that was all part of the job, and so she sucked it up and tried to get on with things as best as she could. Brave face, fixed smile, endless cups of coffee. Her new ritual, repeated daily until she felt her blood might be pure caffeine and her face was permanently coated in a thin layer of poorly-removed foundation, her mouth aching with the effort of smiling and her body similarly complaining at the lack of sleep.

Just when she had resolved to rest and recuperate, she received another invitation from her team, and she had to admit it sounded exciting. She’d RSVPed without thinking, her fingers typing out an acceptance email before her brain could scream in protest, and thus she’d found herself preparing for an awards night at the BFI that she in equal parts anticipated and dreaded. While on the one hand, there would be the chance to watch new films by up-and-coming talents, there was also the looming prospect of a red carpet, as well as swarms of reporters who would all be hyper-focused on her, particularly as of late: wanting to discuss _Victoria,_ criticising her outfits, calling her a _star on the rise._ Not that she minded the latter epithet, of course, but she found it amusing given her relatively established role on TV. _Ah, the media,_ she thought to herself. _A necessary evil, but an evil nonetheless._ At least after the red carpet, she would be free to enjoy herself unhindered by their questions or their cameras, instead able to mingle with those who understood her way of life while appreciating new filmmakers on the rise. 

But she knew that firstly, prior to being able to pass the evening happily, she would have to survive the photo calls and the probing, sexist questions of journalists, and thus she spent the day before the event with her stylist, the two women playing dress up in a constant parade of gowns and cocktail dresses and long, billowing robes that dwarfed her tiny frame. They laughed together at those outfits, opting for a relatively simple dress and then casting fabrics aside and contemplating instead a range of towering high heels, gold and silver and pearlescent, until finally she felt confident in her choices. She returned home in triumph and hung the outfit on her wardrobe door before sinking onto her bed, wishing that she could simply curl up and nap but knowing that her schedule would not permit such a luxury. 

When her beautician arrived, complete with pop-up tent and spray tan equipment, she plastered on a welcoming smile and attempted to make polite conversation as she was bronzed and buffed and painted, fighting sleep as she sat on a cold dining room chair she had never previously used, watching someone she hardly knew apply layers of bright polish to her toenails. As soon as they left, she pulled on a worn old t-shirt she dimly recalled stealing from a co-star, coupled with a pair of joggers she had to roll up several times, and sunk onto her sofa in search of sleep before dinner, finding herself tossing and turning relentlessly instead, eventually giving in, forsaking food and moving to her bedroom in the hope that it would assist her in her quest for rest. Yet there she faced a night of restlessness and insomnia, the jetlag of a few days prior still dogging at her relentlessly, and she caught only the briefest snatches of sleep before she gave in at 6:30 and stumbled into her shower, watching the water turn golden as it ran down the plughole. When she emerged, she examined the result in the mirror, wrinkling her nose as she caught sight of the still-prominent dark circles under her eyes, but feeling a small tingle of appreciation that finally, after many months kept away from the sun, she at least appeared slightly sun-kissed. She contemplated, longingly, the idea of going back to bed but instead dragged herself downstairs, making herself a coffee and skimming through Twitter as she sipped at it, answering a few emails robotically and firing off a quick Instagram edit of a photo of the view from her window. 

By the time her prep team arrived, she was already half-dead on her feet, dozing on and off as they fussed around her with makeup and hairdryers and endless beauty products, preparing her for the cameras and the public. They clucked over her as they did so, offering sympathetic yet useless advice – _sleep more, worry less_ – whilst attempting to make her look less sleep-deprived than she was, applying product after product to her tired skin until she resembled a functioning human being once more. 

As her eyes drooped for the tenth time that hour, downcast by the perceived weight of the makeup coating her eyelids, her manager breezed in with a cup of coffee, handing it to her with the quiet judgement-cum-instruction "you look like shit, Jen, down this, yeah?" She had neither the inclination or the energy to argue, not even having the strength to raise her head and fire back a witticism, and thus she sipped the hot beverage gratefully, placing the cup down as they applied her lipstick expertly, zipped her into her gown and strapped her into the shoes she’d picked out the day before. Dammit, had they been that high then? They definitely seemed more vertiginous today, and she staggered down the steps to a cab, already regretting her choice, but before she could object or ask to change she was being whisked away to the BFI, her team waving her goodbye as she wondered as to the politeness of simply drifting off to sleep for a few precious minutes.

 _Sod it, needs must,_ she decided, and thus she napped again intermittently in the cab, her head propped up against the cool glass of the window as she did so, the jolting motions of the car barely disturbing her as she drifted in and out of a dream. When they arrived, the driver shook her awake and she forced herself determinedly back to consciousness, stepping out into the press area feeling somewhat discombobulated, momentarily thrown by the flashes of cameras, and so she turned, heading through an archway and into the mercifully quiet waiting area, appreciating the dark and the quiet instantly. She felt her head spin and she looked around for something to hold on to as she tried to stop her vision from wavering, cursing the lack of anything convenient to grab, and it was then that she saw him.

Peter was stood a short distance away, grinning at her with all the youthful ebullience of a teenager, hands thrust deep in his pockets as he looked her up and down, appraising her silently while maintaining his façade of happiness. His worry for her was thinly disguised, and thus she decided to take the upper hand at once, refusing to allow him to comment on her fragility or her weary, worn appearance. 

"They didn't tell me you were coming!" she enthused in a voice which didn't sound like her own, but he only grinned all the wider, somewhat bolstered by her upbeat tone, and offered her his arm, which she gratefully took for support. She tried not to clutch him too tightly, but he understood her well enough to know she sought reassurance, and linked arms with her properly, allowing her to lean on him more completely as he bore her weight without complaint.

"Well, I told _my_ people to tell _your_ people to keep it secret," he murmured a little bashfully, and she grinned up at him blearily, swaying slightly in her heels. Damn him for being so tall. Damn her for choosing these preposterous shoes. "Anyway, surprise, here I am!"

"It's good to see you, Peter," she said with a sincere smile, grateful for his arm steadying her as they chatted. She contemplated getting a drink, but she knew that alcohol would only prove soporific, so she remained where she was, concentrating on her companion intently, determined not to miss a word he said. "I thought you'd got sick of me after Washington." 

"Sick of you? Never." 

" _I'd_ be sick of me by now," she mumbled with a shy smile, looking down to her shoes, avoiding meeting his gaze to prevent him from seeing the tiredness in her eyes. "But, you know, that's just me." 

"You're much too hard on yourself," he admonished, nudging her side playfully, almost causing her to stumble, but he caught her in time, tactfully not commenting on the mishap. "You’re wonderful. Now. Come on, darling, time to go do our bit and smile for the cameras. You look wonderful, by the way, so try to make this old codger look good, eh?" 

She smiled at him, grateful for the compliment, the two of them stepping out into the press area together and posing for photos, Jenna knowing but hardly caring that there would be comments online tomorrow about the significance of her arm linked so tightly with his. Once photographers had finished bellowing instructions at them both, they stepped onto the red carpet itself, greeting fans with warm smiles and posing for selfies, pausing every so often to chat with reporters about mundane matters – Peter about _Doctor Who_ ; her about _Victoria_ ; both of them about what they were wearing, although she was on the receiving end of catty comments about appearance far more often than he. 

Her head started to spin as they walked, and she became increasingly dependent on Peter’s physical support as they advanced, her words beginning to become more and more robotic, her responses more rehearsed and her smile more distant with each yard of red carpet they traversed. Peter, for his part, took the lead, shielding her from the most obtrusive questions, making polite excuses for her somewhat spaced-out behaviour, and she was dimly grateful for his actions as she realised that reporters were smirking at her, no doubt enjoying watching her make a fool of herself. By the time they were halfway down the red carpet, Peter was all but dragging her in his wake, and she groaned inwardly at the thought that the papers would have a field day about her demeanour, yet she was too exhausted to consider dealing with the wake of the inevitable mess. No doubt the tabloids would go to town with their speculations about her – proposing, perhaps, that she might be off her face on drink or drugs – and she would have laughed about their misinterpretation of her fatigue, had she had the energy to spare. Let them spread lies about her private life; let them continue with their salacious speculation; she knew the truth. She knew the reason for this state she was in, and it was entirely self-inflicted. 

That being said, despite her determination to survive the evening, her vision grew increasingly wobbly as they walked on, her dizziness coming to a head most unexpectedly. Peter had stepped away for a moment to speak with a fan, leaving her alone away from the barrier, and with his arm no longer anchoring her to reality, she felt her head spinning out of control, her blood thundering in her veins as her senses failed her completely, her body suddenly heavy as she realised what was about to happen. She tried to say something in warning, tried to call out for help, but her mouth only opened uselessly as she took half a step towards Peter and collapsed forwards, the red carpet rushing up to meet her as everything went dark. 

When she came to, she was in Peter’s arms, screens drawn around them for privacy as she realised she was still on the red carpet. Peter was crouched behind her, her head and shoulders propped against his chest as a figure in green said something to her, their tone urgent, but her brain struggled to process their words and so she only nodded weakly, hoping that would be deemed an acceptable response. Her head spun as she tried to regain her bearings, her consciousness threatening to fail her again as their surroundings lurched uncomfortably, and then the figure in green was gone and it was just her and Peter left alone.

"Jen?" he said quietly, his tone laced with worry as he cradled her with care. "Jenna, honey, focus on my voice, hey? That's it. Good lass. You gave us quite the scare." 

"Wh– " 

"Shh, shh. Don't try and talk. You fainted, probably with exhaustion. Freaked us all out. Screaming. Mass panic. Proper _Doctor_ _Who_ levels of hysteria."

"Well..." She tried to smile, but she wasn't sure of the extent of her success. She managed to focus her eyes on Peter, watching him beam at her, exhaling deeply in relief.

"I know you missed it but hey, this wasn't the way to go about things," he chuckled then, stroking a lock of hair off her face. "They've gone to get a stretcher, you've gotta go to hospital." 

"Why?" 

"You went over on those ridiculous shoes and your ankle looks pretty nasty. So you're going for an X–Ray. Want me to call anyone? Kate? Richard? Your mum?" 

"Richard and I..." she wasn’t able to say the words so she gestured vaguely, and of course he understood at once, his tone becoming immediately apologetic, despite the fact it was nothing to do with him and barely his problem anymore. 

"Oh, hon. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. It's his loss. Well, in lieu of him, if you'll have me, I'll come with you to A&E. Hold your hand while they strap you up. Yeah?"

"Sure," she felt a little better at the prospect of having him by her side, despite the circumstances. A familiar face was what she needed right now, and his kindness made her eyes fill with tears which she blinked away in frustration. "Maybe call Kate though. Don't want any tabloids speculating about– " 

"All those drugs you've been taking?" He tipped her a wink, his tone playful, and she said a silent prayer of thanks for his ability to read her mind and understand her humour. "I'm kidding. It'll be OK. Look, here's the paramedic again, see?"

She nodded weakly before she lost consciousness again, and when she came to she was in A&E, Peter's hand warm and reassuring in her own as he gave her a serious look, the two of them alone in a cubicle together. "Well," he said sternly, frowning slightly at her as he assumed the role of her physician, tipping her a wink as he spoke. "No more silly shoes for you. You've got a nasty broken ankle."

"Sorry Doctor. My bad. What’s my fate gonna be?" 

"No work for six weeks," he made a face then, understanding the implications his words would have and feeling immediately guilty for having to deliver the prognosis. "Try not to go mad with boredom." 

“What?!” she yelped with incredulity, feeling horror-struck at the prospect of letting down fans and being stuck at home alone. "Not even conventions?"

"Especially not conventions! No flying, madam. Definitely no ludicrous high heels, either." 

She groaned loudly, rolling her head back and staring up at the ceiling in despondency, thinking over her schedule for the next few weeks with a sense of gloominess. "Everyone will be pissed– " 

"Jen… no, they won’t. Fans have been tweeting you since you collapsed," he told her, his tone gentle as he broke the news. "There was a hashtag, whatever that might be, and Kate called, because your Twitter is blowing up big time. Everyone is worried senseless about you. Including me. You shouldn’t be worrying about work; you should be worrying about getting better."

"Oh. Right. Getting better. Got it."

"Good." He kissed her forehead with the utmost gentleness, smiling at her reassuringly as he did so. "You're a special lady, Jen. That’s why everyone loves you." 

"I'm n–" 

"No arguing, Miss Coleman. Less talking, more healing."

 

* * *

 

"Knock knock," Peter called from the hallway, startling from her reverie as he breezed into the lounge with an enormous bouquet of flowers that dwarfed any of the ten previous ones she’d received from assorted well– wishers. "How's the invalid?"

"Bored," she groused, as he grinned at her and moved to open the curtains, her grimacing as the sunlight hit her for the first time that morning, squinting her eyes against the glare and curling up more tightly on the sofa. "Really bored." 

"Well, I'm here to provide amusement to the patient," he passed her a stack of magazines and then looked around for a vase, frowning a little in consternation at the meticulous organisation of her barely– used house. "This place is so tidy; how do you manage it? We've all seen the tip that is your trailer..."

"By spending very little time here," she informed him absentmindedly, thumbing through the top title and making a face at the grossly sexist article headlines. "Remember?" 

"Right," he said sheepishly, pulling a face before brightening up once more as he resolved to cheer her up. "Well, would you like a cuppa?"

"I believe I'm supposed to ask you that, you're the guest." 

"The guest who has a key– " 

"Which you stole off me!"

" _Borrowed_. Besides, can't have you making tea, it'll be all over the floor before I even get a sip. Speaking of which, how are the crutches?"

"Crutchy." 

"Ha ha," he said drily. “Seriously, Jen, how are you doing?” 

"I don't know," she sighed, resting her head on the back of the sofa and making a face, unsure whether to lie to him or not. "I'm just... This place isn't very homey for me. Plus, I'm insanely bored. And I miss working. Although..." An idea occurred to her – a really mad idea – and she grinned over at Peter mischievously.

"Oh no," he looked nervous and backed away half a step, raising one hand warningly. "No, no, no, I know that face..."

"Peter, come on… I'm not allowed to leave the house, but they didn't say I couldn't do work from here, did they?" She smiled up at him hopefully, widening her eyes fractionally as she did so. "So..." 

"You're supposed to _rest_..." 

“Rest is _boring_. Look, I'm here, you're here, so we should do a live YouTube... Thingy. Answer questions for fans. As I can't make it to my convention." 

" _Your_ convention?" He smirked at her maddeningly, neatly sidestepping her proposal in the hope she might abandon the idea. "Very telling." 

"Oh shut up and pass me my laptop." 

"Which is... Where?" 

"I don't know? Coffee table, maybe? And I'll take that cuppa while you're at it, Doctor Capaldi." 

“Dammit, Jen,” he said with resignation, crouching and rifling through the shelves underneath the table. “Fine. _Fine_. But I’m not taking responsibility when Kate gets mad as hell, OK?”

“Deal.”


End file.
